


Angel Wings & Bouquets

by VoidGhost



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Genderfluid Crowley (Good Omens), Language of Flowers, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Mutual Pining, Requited Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-25
Updated: 2019-11-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:14:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21555268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VoidGhost/pseuds/VoidGhost
Summary: “Crowley, you’re a florist.”Crowley, the florist, stopped mid-sip of his glass of wine to give Aziraphale a look. “Yes? Thought we established that years ago.”“Right, of course,” Aziraphale said, then stalled as he took a bite of his cheesecake. The caramel drizzle was a little too much in his opinion, but he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth to begin with. “Ah, I was just hoping if you’d help me put together a bouquet. For someone.”Crowley paused. His brown, almost yellow eyes, scrutinized him.Or,Aziraphale has a crush on a client and wants Crowley to help woo them.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 112





	Angel Wings & Bouquets

**Author's Note:**

> Def a multichap but idk when I'll finish it. let me finish this semester first lmao  
> hope yall enjoy!

“Crowley, you’re a florist.” 

Crowley, the florist, stopped mid-sip of his glass of wine to give Aziraphale a look. “Yes? Thought we established that years ago.”

Across the table, Aziraphale fidgeted with his napkin. He mentally reprimanded himself for starting this off with an odd question. Ugh, why was this hard to ask?

“Right, of course,” Aziraphale said, then stalled as he took a bite of his cheesecake. The caramel drizzle was a little too much in his opinion, but he didn’t have much of a sweet tooth to begin with. “Ah, I was just hoping if you’d help me put together a bouquet. For someone.” 

Crowley paused. His brown, almost yellow eyes, scrutinized him.

Aziraphale hastily added, “Of course I’ll pay you, I don’t expect a discount for being your friend. If that was what you were thinking.” 

Crowley clears his throat and delicately sets his glass down on the table. “No, no, ‘course I’ll help you, angel.” 

Aziraphale smiled. The nickname came into play only around two years ago, three after they met. Aziraphale was transitioning his bookshop into a tattoo parlor, something he’d been thinking about for ages but never committed to until then. He’d decided to do it during the summer, which meant his usual attire had too many layers to move heavy boxes of books upstairs or into storage. So when Crowley paid him a visit, he was caught in quite a state of undress; just a tanktop to keep the heat off his back. And there Crowley had discovered the one tattoo that Aziraphale hadn’t shown him yet: a pair of wings stretching across his shoulders and down the backs of his arms. 

‘Angel’ has stuck since then. 

“Oh, thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, his shoulders sagging in relief.

Crowley fidgeted with the lip of his glass. “Who’s it for?”

“Oh, uh.” Aziraphale tensed again. He was hoping he wouldn’t ask. “Just, uh. Someone. Don’t believe you’ve met.” 

“Right.” Crowley took a long sip. “Come by the shop tomorrow, we’ll discuss it.” 

Aziraphale smiled. “Of course. Do you think you could have it done before Friday?”

Crowley’s usual tight expression softened. “Sure, angel.” Then, because he had to, “Don’t have real clients waiting or anything like that, of course not.” 

Aziraphale rolled his eyes and smacked his arm with a napkin. “If you were busy, you could’ve said so.” 

“Too late,” Crowley teased. “Gotta add it on the mountain of work I have to do. Weddings, anniversaries, you name it.” 

Truthfully, Crowley hadn’t worked on a wedding since autumn, and Aziraphale knew this because Crowley always turned into a sleep-deprived pissy demon as his work hours radically increased. Thankfully, that was not now. 

“Well, I hope you find time to squeeze your dear friend into your busy schedule,” Aziraphale teased back. He almost missed the way Crowley’s amused grin faltered before fixing itself. 

“No promises,” Crowley murmured. Then, louder, “I’ll order lunch tomorrow and we can look through the nursery.” 

“Thank you, dear.”

Crowley mumbled something that sounded like, “No problem,” into his glass. 

The next day, Aziraphale strolled into Crowley’s shop. It was always a little humid inside, so his jacket was slung across his arm. There was the smell of soil that hit him everytime he walked in, much like the air out in rural areas, or neighborhoods in the summer where everyone tries to fix their garden after a bleak winter. To Aziraphale, it just reminded him of Crowley. 

A little bell above the door signaled his arrival. There wasn’t anyone up at the front desk yet, so Aziraphale strolled through the shelves of plants and admired them. 

There was a reason that the _Garden of_ _Eden_ was among the most popular florists in Soho. The plants were clearly thriving; their leaves were a vibrant green and their blossoms bloomed the size of Aziraphale’s palm. Not to mention the variety of colors that stood out against the dull, grey brick walls of the building. 

“Aren’t you gorgeous?” Aziraphale murmured to a yellow carnation. It seemed to preen under his touch. 

“Don’t spoil them.” 

Aziraphale turned to find Crowley had approached from wherever he was, glaring down over his sunglasses at the plant in question. If Aziraphale didn’t know any better, he’d say the carnation’s stem straightened. 

“I’m always surprised when I walk in here,” Aziraphale noted. “You take such good care of them.” 

“I make sure they behave.” Crowley shot another look at the carnations. “Anyway. I’ll give you a tour of the nursery.” 

Crowley spun on his heel and began stalking to the back room. Aziraphale gave the carnation another whispered compliment before hurrying behind him. 

The nursery had a skylight. There were many plants back there of all variety, some of the same types on display out in the front of the shop. Some of them were wilting or blemished with unusual spots on their leaves. 

“So, I gotta know a couple details,” Crowley said. He turned to lean back on his work table. “What’s this person like?” 

Aziraphale’s hands fidgeted. “Uh, well. I think she’d prefer mute colors. You see, she’s always wearing--” 

“She?” Crowley interrupted. His eyebrows rose. 

“Oh, ah, yes.” Aziraphale felt a flush rise on his cheeks. “She stops in the shop frequently. She mentioned she was thinking of a flower tattoo, so I thought…” He gestured vaguely to the nursery. 

Crowley didn’t say anything for a moment. “You really like her?” 

After a pause, Aziraphale nodded. 

Crowley swallowed thickly. He clapped his hands together. “Alright. Let’s see what we can do.” 

He described various bouquets to Aziraphale, showing him multiple catalogues and blooming carnations. Crowley’s plants were truly the best in all of Soho, in Aziraphale’s opinion. And not only were his plants radiant, but Crowley was skilled in putting them into beautiful displays. His example bouquets were a stunning array of carnations, roses, lilies, daisies, and everything else in the nursery. 

“You said she likes muted colors,” Crowley said, leading Aziraphale past shelves. “How about some dark purple?”

“Oh, yes, I think she’d like that,” Aziraphale said. “Uh, what does that mean in, ah, flower language…?”

Crowley snorted. “Yeah, we don’t usually base bouquets off of meaning, just what looks good. But if you’re curious, purple flowers can mean anything between success, admiration, or antipathy, depending what you google.”

“Oh.” Then, “I hope she doesn’t look up what they mean.” 

“If you’re worried about that,” Crowley said, and paused to show Aziraphale a pot of purple flowers. “How about some asters? When paired with red carnations, it could signify success in a relationship.”

Aziraphale cautiously smiled. “Yes, I like that.”

“So we have a start,” Crowley said with an answering grin. “Now, we might need something a little brighter. Not too much, just enough to accent the rest of the bouquet.”

Aziraphale drifted across the shop to the array of white flowers. He was always drawn to the color, if his usual cream suit didn’t give it away. He stopped to admire a plant with a long stem that had spots of white blossoms blooming along it. 

“This one,” He said. 

Crowley peered over his shoulder. “Stephanotis. Not bad.”

“Does it mean something?” Aziraphale asked. 

“Well, white flowers are usually used in marriage ceremonies,” Crowley noted. “But I’m sure it counts when it’s a gift from an angel.” He grinned mischievously. 

Aziraphale felt his face flush. He tried to ignore how that toothy grin made his heart skip a beat. It felt thrilling and guilt-inducing at the same time.

“Right, then,” Aziraphale said, and put a step of space between them. 

Crowley marked the pot of stephanotis with a sticker. “I’ll drop the bouquet off Friday morning.”

“Thank you, dear,” Aziraphale said. Then, after a moment of pondering, “Why is your shop always closed on weekends?”

“Told you, I work a second job,” Crowley said, already making notes on a clipboard. 

“But you never told me what it is that you do.” 

Crowley paused to look up. “You know the Dowlings?”

Oh, yes. Aziraphale knew the Dowlings - the American ambassador and his wife and son. He had only ever seen them on television or in the newspapers. Whenever they came into town as a family, they were always so surrounded by bodyguards that it was impossible to see them. 

Aziraphale nodded. 

“I work for them,” Crowley said with a cocked grin. “Super-secret, confidential stuff.” 

“Really? Crowley, that could be dangerous.” 

“It’s not, not what I do.” Crowley waved his concerns away. “But don’t worry angel, I’ll be back Monday and you can tell me all about how you woo’d your lady friend.” 

“Oh, don’t phrase it like that, I’m not even sure if she’ll accept,” Aziraphale said, blushing a deeper red. 

“If anyone rejects you, I might just have to send the Dowling’s personal army after them,” Crowley said with a grin. 

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Aziraphale warned, although he doubted Crowley even had that much power. For all Aziraphale knew, Crowley could just be their gardner. 

“Only because you asked,” Crowley added. 

They sorted out payment information, and Crowley wished him good luck in scoring a date that weekend before Aziraphale crossed the street back to his parlor. 

His stomach was twisting itself in knots and Aziraphale wasn’t sure if it was nerves or the way Crowley reacted to his request. Or the way Aziraphale felt about Crowley doing this for him - disappointed, but unsure what he wanted in its place. He’d been thinking about this for a long time - ever since their discussion about flower tattoos. Aziraphale was used to being conflicted, and eventually, he always had to pick a side. 

Yes. He will go through with this. He already paid for it anyhow. 

-

Crowley dropped off the bouquet just as he said, early on Friday morning. It was wrapped in pink and white paper as he passed it over to Aziraphale. 

“It’s beautiful, Crowley,” Aziraphale said, almost breathless by the delicate display of each blossom. 

“It’s no big deal,” Crowley said. He had a bag slung on his back. “I gotta go, but I’ll catch you later, angel.” 

“Thank you dear!” Aziraphale called after him. 

Crowley waved a hand in acknowledgement before climbing into his Bentley and driving off. 

Aziraphale set the bouquet up on a vase near the front of the shop and waited. 

She was scheduled to come in that afternoon. Until then, Aziraphale puttered anxiously around his shop, arranging his tools and rearranging them, going into his back room and fluttering through his books. His clients that day were only there for consultations plus one appointment for ear piercings. 

When the bell above the door jingled, he found his head instinctively lifting up to see who it was, each time falling disappointed when it wasn’t her. 

He was sketching out a design for a client when he heard the bell ring, followed by two familiar voices chatting. He looked up from his desk and felt his heart skip. 

Ms. Ashtoreth always arrived in long, flowing dresses that made Aziraphale’s love for Victorian clothing cry. She always wore black; black lace, black frills, black gloves. Her hair was always half-pinned back, with the rest falling over her shoulders. A pair of sunglasses were always perched on her nose, although Aziraphale hadn’t come to the conclusion on why yet. 

Beside her, Warlock walked in while tapping away at his phone, somehow managing to hold a conversation with his nanny while doing so. He must be around ten by now. He and his nanny have been stopping by the parlor for the last year or so, although Aziraphale knew Ms. Ashtoreth had been his nanny since he was a baby. 

“Aziraphale,” Ms. Ashtoreth greeted. Aziraphale couldn’t help his gaze linger on her dark lipstick before darting up to her eyes. 

“Hello, Ms. Ashtoreth,” Aziraphale said. “Warlock. Are you ready to get your ears pierced?”

“Uh-huh,” Warlock said, tapping away. 

“Well, I’ve got a chair ready for you. Come this way.” 

Ashtoreth lead the boy with a gentle hand on his back to the chair Aziraphale had nervously cleaned eight times this morning. Warlock obediently sat down while Ashtoreth took the chair on one side of him. Then she snatched the phone from his hands. 

“Hey!” Warlock cried indignantly. 

“Listen to Mr. Fell, or you’ll have an extra hole in your face,” Ashtoreth warned. 

Aziraphale stifled a chuckle. He focused on rolling up his sleeves to wash his hands and preparing the needle. When he turned back to the pair, he found them both watching him; Warlock with his eyes wide and directed on the needle, and Ashtoreth eyeing him with an indescribable expression on her face. 

“Is that the needle?” Warlock asked, breaking Ashtoreth’s attention on Aziraphale. 

“Dear, you’ve wanted this since you were seven,” Ashtoreth reminded him. “Don’t chicken out now.” 

“‘M not a chicken,” Warlock said, and schooled his expression into a brave face. 

“Yes, you’re very brave, dear boy,” Aziraphale said as he cleaned Warlock’s left ear. “These are the ones you wanted, yes?”

He held up a pair of small silver earrings centered with a red gem. Warlock grinned. 

“Yeah! I picked those out.” 

“You did, and they’ll look lovely.” Aziraphale drew a dot on the soft part of Warlock’s ear. “Are you ready?” 

Stiffly, Warlock nodded. Ashtoreth took his hand, which usually Warlock would shake off stubbornly, but this time he held fast. 

“Alright.” Aziraphale pulled at Warlock’s ear and positioned the needle. “Oh, will you tell me about your birthday? That’s coming up right?”

Warlock perked up. “Oh yeah! Mom hired a magician even though I wanted Penn & Teller, ‘cause Jess got one for her birthday last month, and--OW!”

Aziraphale pierced the needle while the boy was distracted. He initially flinched, then froze in place, as if daring to move will cause more pain. 

“Good job,” Aziraphale praised while he lined up the first earring. In the next few moments, he slid the needle out and replaced it with shining red gem. 

Warlock reached up to feel it. He had an awed expression despite the tears prickling his eyes. 

“That didn’t hurt,” He said as his voice wobbled. 

“‘Course not,” Ashtoreth said. “You can do it once more, can’t you?”

Warlock’s nod was unconvincing, but Ashtoreth pat his hand anyway. 

Switching sides, Aziraphale repeated his steps. Warlock was more wary this time, and wouldn’t fall for the same trick. Aziraphale was wondering what to try next when Ashtoreth beat him to it. 

“Warlock, dear, what were you telling me about the homeless man you saw after school the other day?”

“Oh, he was holding a sign and ranting on about witches or somethin’, until the police had to ask him to leave. John threw a rock at him, and-- _ AH! _ ”

He looked more upset at being taken off guard a second time than being in pain. 

Aziraphale quickly switched the needle with the last earrings and clapped his hands together. “All done! Good job, Warlock.” 

Aziraphale gave Ashtoreth the basic instructions on keeping his ears clean and how long to keep the piercings in until it heals. Ashtoreth listened intently, smiling pleasantly, and Aziraphale tried not to get flustered. 

“And, ah, one more thing,” Aziraphale said before he could back out of it. He hurried over to the vase where he’d put the bouquet this morning, and carefully extracted it. He made sure to tuck the paper around it before turning around. Warlock was, luckily, flipping through his catalogue of tattoo designs. 

“These are you for you,” Aziraphale said. He held the bouquet out. 

Ashtoreth, almost numbly, took the bouquet and stared at it. Her mouth had gone slack and she didn’t say anything for a long moment. 

“For me?” She asked, quiet.

Aziraphale nodded. “I just, you know, you mentioned you were thinking of getting a tattoo of a flower, and I thought I’d, uh, give you some ideas.” Aziraphale chuckled weakly. “Actually, I was wondering if you’d accompany me - oh, well, there’s this show at the theater this weekend, and I thought, perhaps, if you’d like to come with me. Or, if you’d just like dinner, I know a small sushi place that is divine - oh, I guess that is if you like sushi, we could always do something simple instead--”

He stopped rambling when Ashtoreth started giggling. She had a lovely shade of pink on her cheeks, but she was laughing like someone said a joke that went over his head. He tried, and failed, not to be embarrassed. 

When Ashtoreth caught his frown, she stifled her giggles, but she was still wearing a loopy grin. She placed a tender hand on Aziraphale’s arm. 

“I would love to,” She said, grinning. 

Aziraphale blinked dumbly. “Re-Really? Oh, lovely. Uh, when…?”

“I’ll pick you up Monday night,” Ashtoreth said, and Aziraphale swore she winked behind her sunglasses. Then, “Warlock, we should be heading back now.” 

“‘Kay.” 

Aziraphale followed them and held the door open. He smiled nervously, waving a hesitant goodbye to Ashtoreth. She squeezed Aziraphale’s wrist. 

“I’ll see you then, angel,” Ashtoreth said with a sly grin, then followed Warlock out into the street. 

It wasn’t until Aziraphale had closed the door behind them when the full meaning of Ashtoreth’s words hit him.  _ Angel _ . Only one other person called him that.

“Oh,  _ lord _ .” 

**Author's Note:**

> find me @ markiboss-voidghost.tumblr.com  
> buy me a coffee at ko-fi.com/voidghost


End file.
